Just Desserts
by Nyruserra
Summary: Written for a Prompt on Inception Kink: Cobb gets his Julia Child on.  Having had to face up to the fact that he can't cook anything that's more complicated than flapjacks, and not wanting his kids to forever have to live on take-away, Cobb decides ...
1. Chapter 1

**Full Prompt**:

Cobb gets his Julia Child on.

Having had to face up to the fact that he can't cook anything that's more complicated than flapjacks, and not wanting his kids to forever have to live on take-away, Cobb decides to take a cooking class. And if he's going to learn to cook, _he really_ wants to learn.

Boeuf bourguignon, boiled lobster, soufflés - the works.

He tries out his newly learned culinary skills on Ariadne, who finds MasterChef!Cobb sexy as hell.

**Warning:** This story is/will be NC-17, and is _definitely_ not work-safe!

Please read responsibly ;-)

Many thanks to HelenValentine for the wonderful beta'ing job. I gave her hell with all my tense shifts .

* * *

**Just Desserts**

"Daddy, I thought Jell-O was supposed to jiggle. Just like on TV!"

Dom wasn't really sure how things had gone quite this wrong in what should be a fairly simple operation. He stared at the remains of his once-pristine kitchen in bewilderment. "This is just special Jell-O, Phillipa honey," he said desperately, but he had the sneaking suspicion his seven year old wasn't buying it.

She looked at it, hands on her little hips, and frowned in concentration. "It's sort of … melting. I think it needs to go back in the fridge."

"Why does the Jell-O smell like campfire?" James had clambered up on a chair to get a better view of the proceedings

It seemed like such a_ logical_ idea at the time; the damned powder wouldn't dissolve no matter how much he stirred it, so it only made sense to heat it at that point, right? How was he to know that the non-dissolving powder that was apparently also non-melting, was most definitely pro-burning?

"Billy's daddy doesn't make Jell-O on the stove," James added, sounding as sage as a five-year old could manage.

Dom gave up at that point. "Hey guys, how do you feel about Dairy Queen?"

-..-

"Daddy!" James immediately dropped the Tonka he'd been playing with into the sandbox, and launched himself what looked to Dom to be super-hero distances to hit his father's midsection at something approaching light speed. Dom couldn't help reflecting that for such a small body, James had a surprisingly solid feel when he hit you.

"You're home!" Phillipa was far daintier in her approach, and Dom had time to shift James onto his shoulders before he bent down to catch her in a bear hug. "Grand-maman said you wouldn't be home until after supper."

"Yeah, well, it's far too nice a day to be in meetings." In truth, the company he was currently in discussions with, a bank that was interested in new fascia designs for their corporate headquarters in New York, wasn't terribly happy about his decision to cut the concept meeting short, but when he'd looked outside and saw the first really perfect summer day this year, he knew this was where he had to be. "How about we head over to the park before dinner?"

"Yeah!" James squealed, and immediately began scrambling down his father's shoulders.

Phillipa, on the other hand, was old enough to look wary. "What are we having for dinner?"

Dom winced, remembering last-night's chicken fiasco that had set off the fire alarm. "How about pancakes?"

"We had pancakes for breakfast, Daddy. You remember? You made mine with chocolate-chips." James looked concerned that his dad would forget something he considered to be a highlight of his day.

Dom sighed in defeat. "What do you guys want to order on your pizza tonight?"

-..-

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Ariadne. I mean, you're only in the country for what, five days? I really feel guilty asking you to spend two of them looking after my kids."

"You know it's not a problem. I love the kids, and it's great being here – seeing you with them. It gives real meaning to everything we did."

"Ariadne—"

She was uncomfortable with his gratitude, even though she always felt her stomach fluttering when he looked at her like that. His grey-blue eyes gave her his trademark squint from across the room, but even ten feet away, she could still feel it like a physical caress. Instead of courting the possibility of the situation becoming awkward, she brushed him off. "Where are my favourite monsters?"

The look Dom shot her was almost comic, in that he looked apologetic, frustrated and thankful at the same time.

"Ariadne!" Phillipa shouted while rounding the corner of the living room as fast as her short legs could carry her. "Are you staying with us while Daddy's at his meeting? I have a new Barbie movie! Can we watch it?"

"I left the number for their grand-maman, Marie, on the fridge, along with the number for the hotel I'm at in New York, and my cell," he reminded, sounding every inch the anxious parent, and not a bit like the cool and collected Extractor Ariadne had first met. She smiled in amusement at the changes two years and happiness had wrought. Dom gave her a quizzical look, but shrugged it off. "My flight should be in by four tomorrow afternoon."

"We'll be here. Go. Show those stuffy bankers what you can do."

And with a flurry of hugs and kisses, he finally made it out the door. Once they had finished waving from the front windows as their father drove out of sight, Ariadne looked down at the two gleaming blond heads, hands on her hips. "So, who's up for an afternoon at the beach?"

It was that perfect mix between bright sun and light breeze. There were small waves coming up on the sand for the children to play in, though nothing big enough to give her cause for concern. Ariadne rather thought that Phillipa might take after her father as she watched the little girl build a sandcastle, very carefully surveying the entire area of the beach that they had claimed by the simple expedient of laying out their bright towels. With a serious mien, she examined, and discarded half a dozen potential plots, before finally settling on her choice, and when she built her castle, she'd managed to place it so that the incoming waves would feed the moat, a feat Ariadne considered impressive for the seven-year old. James contented himself with collecting vast quantities of rocks and pebbles, and any other detritus washed up on shore, to be claimed as part of his treasures, and Ariadne helped him build a sand-bank to keep them in. By late afternoon, Ariadne was taking them home. Phillipa chatted animatedly the entire ride home about their adventures, and James, despite having gotten a bit too much sun, chimed in every now and then with his earnest comments.

The front yard of the Cobb home was that peculiar mix of well-maintained and disaster that signalled to the entire neighbourhood that children lived here, and somehow the whole place managed to exude a real feeling of _home_. She was glad that Dom had decided to move his little clan when he finally got back to the States, feeling, she was sure, that it was time to let go of the house that he and Mal had called home, and find a fresh start for all of them. Somehow, she couldn't have imagined the same laughing, teasing man in the dark, haunted atmosphere she remembered from the house in his dreams.

"So, what has your Dad planned for us for dinner?"

Phillipa, being Ariadne's shadow all afternoon, was eager to show her the routines. She took off for the kitchen, with Ariadne and a very tired James following in her wake, but she didn't head to the walk-in pantry, like Ariadne was expecting, or even to the fridge. Instead, she was up on her tiptoes, rummaging through the drawer by the phone.

"Phil, what are you after, honey?"

She looked over at Ariadne, blankly. "Dinner," she said, and to Ariadne's complete surprise, pulled out a small, well-worn brown leather binder.

Her surprise quickly turned to bemusement when she began flipping through, and noted the shear _variety_ of take-away and delivery Dom Cobb had managed to source. _He can't honestly have tried more than a fraction of these. It's not like he orders out every day._

"I think pizza is number one on the phone," Phillipa chimed in helpfully from somewhere down near Ariadne's elbow.

"Mr. Steve delivers pizza on Thursdays," said James added, not to be outdone. "I like Mr. Tony better. He brings us stickers."

_Then again, maybe he does._ "Oh dear," was all she could think to say.

In the end, a quick rummage through the kitchen cupboards turned up… well, nothing very edible, so an emergency whip 'round to the store saw Ariadne and her two helpers (one of whom felt much better after conking out in the back seat for ten minutes) industriously making a turkey & broccoli casserole. Ariadne unobtrusively watched the two children interact to finish their masterpiece while she quietly finished up the dishes. Phillipa was very studiously assessing the overall pattern of the turkey to broccoli ratios, trying to make sure there were no broccoli knots, or turkey clubs going on, while James stood by, with chubby hands full, to enthusiastically drop clumps of cheese and croutons over the sections that Phillipa deemed were ready.

Dinner was in the oven with forty-five minutes on the timer, so Ariadne suggested a movie. James, showing chivalry far beyond his years (though Ariadne supposed she would expect nothing else from a young man who had both Dominic Cobb and Arthur Hamilton for guidance), gave into watching Barbie with only token protests.

By the time the movie was done, dinner cleaned up, a goodnight phone call made to Dad, and the munchkins in bed, Ariadne felt like she'd performed Inception itself; she was absolutely exhausted. She took the opportunity for a few minutes of quiet, and if she were quite honest with herself, a few minutes to be nosy. She grabbed a glass of the wine in the fridge, and began lazily meandering the house, checking out pictures on the walls (almost all were of the two smiling kids, though there was one portrait-style picture of Mal hanging in the hallway), poking aimlessly in drawers in the family-room end-tables (deck of cards; 4H pencil worn down to a stub; a Ted Bell novel, spine completely un-cracked; a copy of The Little Prince, spine bent nearly flat; two Highlights magazines; and what looked suspiciously like forgotten Cheerios), examined one aquarium (one extremely well-fed goldfish; lots of algae), and a junk bowl on the foyer table ($3.50 in loose change; two keys; three Barbie shoes, non-matching; and a snail shell, thankfully unoccupied).

The image of Dom Cobb settled so thoroughly into family life was appealing in a way Ariadne had been trying to ignore for a while now. He brought his family to Paris to see Miles at least every few months, and in the two years since the Fischer job, she'd watched him change, shedding the hollow grief and guilt that had defined him, and she began to see the man that Arthur must have known, the one before the tragedy. His smile, a prize rarely earned while on the job, was now always lurking, his gentleness, a thing she would hardly have believed he had in him that first day of dreaming, was evident in every interaction with his children. And sometimes, she thought maybe, with her. It would be in a touch, held just a fraction too long, or an awareness he seemed to have of exactly where she was in his space at any given moment, so that he could, without even seeming to look, be able to have an arm exactly where she needed it. Whether she was in danger of dropping one of the too-many books she was carrying, reaching absently for an object that wasn't actually there, or tripping over her own goddamned feet, he always seemed to _know._

It was those rare moments that kept her up at night, wondering.

If she wanted to be completely honest, which she most definitely didn't, it was those moments that had brought her here. With her graduation a few months behind her, she now needed to complete many gruelling hours of internship before she could become licensed. Somehow, for reasons she didn't really want to examine too closely, most of her top choices were here, within a hundred mile radius of this house. She most emphatically didn't look for implications in the fact that it had been Dom who had suggested a large number of the firms to her.

Firmly not thinking any of these things, she drained her glass and headed up to bed, wondering if it would be so very wrong to masturbate in his guest bed.

She did it anyway.

He was exhausted. The meeting had gone well, and Dom was confident that the Directors were completely on board with his designs. He enjoyed being back in New York, but was even happier to be home, though he thought that maybe in a year or two, he might take the kids for a week around Christmas, because no-one did the holiday quite like The Big Apple.

"You could stay – I can call for Chinese, or something —" Dom felt rumpled and a bit fuzzy after his flight. He really felt though, that with all Ariadne had done he should be offering something better than dinner out of a cardboard box, but somehow couldn't coax his brain into coming up with any better ideas to tempt her to stay for a bit longer.

She had one hand on the doorknob already, but she smiled up at him warmly at his offer. "Actually, I've got to head out. I got a call-back from one of the firms for a possible intern position, and they want to make it a dinner meeting."

"Then by all means, don't keep your future waiting." He was fairly sure he was looking at her a little more intently than such a light topic warranted, but wasn't sure he cared anymore. If she had given the slightest indication that she wanted his help, he could have made phone calls to any one of a half dozen firms in the area who owed him, or would like him to owe them. He knew, though, that Ariadne would never, ever forgive him if she thought for one moment that he tried to coddle her.

He'd come to terms awhile ago with how she made him feel. It was a comfortable thing, the warm feeling that had grown in his chest, and the way she fit into his life. He knows he makes up excuses to go to France, and Miles is rapidly becoming one of the most-visited trans-Atlantic grandfathers in existence, but some mornings, when he would wake up and the sheets beside him were cold, he would think that maybe it isn't enough any longer. And then he would remember how very much better off she is if he puts a lid on those particular musings. One of these days, he thought he might not bother to remember those reasons anymore.

"You know," she started, and her eyes, which had been warm and light, narrowed. The smile turned to pursed lips, and one raised eyebrow that gave her face a hint of sternness, the one that told him she wasn't about to take any of his shit, and frankly gave him a bit of a hard-on. "Those kids have a frighteningly large friends-pool of delivery men."

Dom felt himself flush, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed casually, and trying to look less inept than he suddenly felt. "It's just that by the time I get home from work, I don't have a lot of time…," he offered, not really wanting to admit that even with all the world of time, it probably still wouldn't be enough to help him produce an edible meal

She reached up and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. Ariadne, he'd learned, was a very contact-oriented person, and was absolutely not hesitant to reach out and touch him whenever she felt he needed it; whether to kick his ass or offer support. Somehow, he was glad. "Spaghetti wouldn't take any longer than waiting for a delivery guy to show up," she chided gently. "You could even get the kids to help you – it's simple enough, and they'd enjoy helping dad make dinner."

His smile was slightly sheepish, and his arm was warm. "They probably would. Thanks." _She's right._ _Spaghetti –_ _I can handle spaghetti._

-..-

University life agreed with Miles. He had tenure to give him security. He could partake in quiet and erudite discussions with fellows of like minds, often accompanied by glasses of austere wine, crusty baguettes, course country pâté, salty olive paste or creamy brie. He also was given time and funding to pursue pet research papers and inquiries. In fact, in the twenty-odd years that he had been lecturing in his adoptive country, teaching thousands of young men and women and watching them grown and achieve their goals, Miles had come to understand one fundamental thing about himself—

Frankly, he hated grading.

Summer courses at the university were in full swing, though, and he had drawn the proverbial short straw for his department this year; and so, this beautiful Parisian evening had found him shut up in his study, painfully going through the stack of work he'd been putting off for two weeks. He had been sitting down to a well-deserved glass of port when the phone suddenly shattered the silence of his sanctuary. He wasn't entirely surprised to hear the voice of his former student.

"Dom? What is that you're saying?" The line continued to crackle and hiss in his ear, and he really had to concentrate to make out the voice of his normally unflappable son-in-law. _Good Lord, what had Dom sounding so frustrated?_

"…the kids helped…ceiling…spaghetti...blueprints absolutely trashed…. …Airport?"

Miles took the receiver away from his ear and stared at it for a moment, before putting it back against his head. "The connection's terrible. Are you saying you're taking your family on a nine-hour flight, to come for _dinner_?"

-..-

Ariadne liked the building she lived in. It was an old, three-floor walk-up with lots of the original facade still intact. Inside was like stepping into a time warp, with its gleaming brass rails, old-fashioned lights and colour palettes. Mrs. Lebeau, the landlord's wife, always made sure there were fresh flowers on the tables by the doors, and twice every week, Mondays and Thursdays, there was a tray left there of fresh-baked croissants from the bakery down the street.

That Thursday afternoon, there was also Dominic Cobb waiting there, both children in tow. He'd called her last night, so she was expecting him, but expecting him didn't take away from his impact, it seemed. Somehow, he looked like he belonged here, in this bygone era, the way he looked in his navy blue suit and crisp shirt, sitting casually relaxed in a wingback chair. Ariadne had to resist the urge to stick her tongue out.

"You like my babysitting skills so much, you're following me home now?"

He put down the paper he'd been reading and looked up at her with just the hint of a smile. "Obviously, we can't let you out of our lives."

_Yes, please. _She didn't even bother slowing down, but jerked her head to indicate they should follow her up. "So, tell me again why you've come all the way to Paris, just to decide you need cooking classes?"

"Because I'm tired of burning water. Because if I'm going to learn, I'm going to blo– darn well _learn_," he glanced down at James, who was listening avidly, as his dad caught himself, "and where better to learn than France?"

"Can't stand doing it, if you're not going to be the best?"

He shrugged, accepting this assessment. "Something like that, maybe." They reached her apartment door, and she unlocked it, letting the kids inside. She propped herself up against the doorframe and let her heavy purse drop to the floor with a relieved little groan.

The soft glow of the hall lights came on as it neared five o'clock, old drop-lights rescued from the original 40's decor. And Ariadne reflected how it was true that incandescent lighting was more flattering than florescent, and how little Dom Cobb needed it. "Thanks again, Ariadne. It seems you're beginning to make a habit out of saving me."

She grinned up at him, impishly. "I consider it my good deed. Your children will remember me in their dreams when they no longer know every delivery man in a fifty-kilometre radius."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the other side of the doorframe, facing her. "Miles will be busy most Thursdays, actually," he hinted, with a shameless grin.

"Well, how fortunate for you that I no longer have his Thursday evening lecture. I expect to be paid in crepes when this is all done. You shall be locked in my kitchen for a month straight, just cooking for me."

He looked startled for a moment at her teasing. His eyes shot up to meet hers, before a calculating look entered them. Ariadne felt herself blush, and tried to backpedal. "Of course, you could always just do my laundry, or be my coffee-bearing slave – you know what, never mind."

The look on his face was positively wicked. Where were the kids? He'd never look at her like that if they were anywhere around... "You know, Ariadne, you're really not doing much to help yourself."

"Get out of my apartment," she said calmly, trying not to lose any more dignity tonight. "You're going to be late, oh Master Chef-man."

He gave her another devilish smirk as he left her standing there, debating if hitting her forehead on the door frame would help at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Now on to the smutty part of the story - again, please don't read if this isn't appropriate for you, or your surroundings - I am absolutely not responsible for any embarrassing noises you might make in the middle of your office ;-)

I had a lot of fun writing this - though it completely overtook the story I was_ supposed_ to be writing O.o

Oh, well, hopefully I can get back to it now, and you'll see another story for this pairing from me in the near future.

* * *

**Just Desserts**

Ariadne had always thought that six weeks was a long time, but the next six weeks simply flew. There were six weekend meals with Dom and the kids as he showed off his slow-building skills, though not without the occasional disaster. She would show up at five with wine, and wandering into the kitchen usually rewarded her with the sight of Dom intently focused on something on the stove. He would have a simple white linen dish towel draped over one shoulder to protect his dress shirt, the cuffs of which would be undone and rolled up to his elbows, leaving Ariadne to feel that this man definitely didn't need to come to Paris and find something that made him even more appealing. Six Thursdays were spent with James and Phillipa, and she knew she wouldn't know what to do with herself anymore once they left again. She also knew she was in way over her head.

It's Friday, and she knows Dom is making plans to head back home. They've been sitting squished comfortably around Miles's tiny kitchen table for the last few hours. The small bachelor coffee pot has been refilled twice, and Ariadne has almost finished reading her new Architectural Journal. She's shared parts of it with Dom, and he's rejoined with bits of commentary on his choice of reading material, and a very lazy morning has passed, without Ariadne once giving thought to her should-be-consuming-her-every-thought hunt for an internship. She's especially entertained by the noises of total disgust that Dom keeps making as he peruses one of the steel support girders for French cookery in America, _Mastering the Art of French Cooking._

"Really, Dom, it can't be that bad – Ms. Child's book is probably outsold only by the Bible. Besides, it's been around for ages, and I have to respect a cookbook from that era that didn't automatically assume the one doing the cooking was female."

He grunted in a generally affirmative way, but continued to squint down at the offending text menacingly as he paged through. Ariadne went back to her coffee, still smiling. "Have you actually read this woman's cookbook?" Dom finally asked. "It's insane. Any sixties housewife using this must have secretly been trying to kill her family by botulism and sodium glut. It uses canned meat, for God's sake."

Ariadne was highly amused that the man to whom hamburger helper was haute cuisine only a few weeks ago was suddenly giving evidence of reading labels like a mom-pro.

"And what's got you flipping through the seminary book on American French cooking this fine morning? Sophisticated though your kids may be, I guarantee you that they won't eat most of what you find in there."

"I was looking for something special," he said, and, oh, the intensity was back in his gaze when he looked up at her.

She tried to keep her tone light as she asked, "Oh? You and Miles celebrating the end of your course?" _Please don't say it's a date. Please, don't say it's a date._

"You and I are, actually," he said, deliberately casual.

She'd been so focused on her inner monologue that she blinked stupidly, and asked, "Pardon?"

"Well, you did sort of help bring this about, so I was hoping you'd accept an invitation – in thanks."

Ariadne tried not to feel a teensy bit disappointed at that wording – wasn't she worth inviting over just for herself, not just 'in thanks'? – and smiled. "I'd love to, Dom. And just to show my faith in you, I'll even leave the Tums at home tonight."

"Ha. Very Ha, young lady. Just make sure you wear something nice."

She raised a curious eyebrow at this, and tried not to encourage the fluttery feeling in her stomach. "My thanks is rescinded if I wear jeans?"

Dom just gave her a mischievous smile, the one that always made her think of possible reasons he might have for being so damned cocky. "I'll see you here at seven. Now scat, genius needs space to happen."

Seven o'clock found a mountain of rejected outfits on Adriane's bed, a true mess of barely-understood cosmetics on her bathroom counter, and Ariadne herself standing on Miles's doorstep giving herself a last minute pep-talk. The dress was perhaps a bit too much, but Ariadne hadn't been sure how nice he'd meant. It was a sleeveless charcoal grey a-line, with a classic boat-neck and a hem that fell a few inches above the knee. She'd added a black belt and a small, classy black scarf to accessorize, and she'd even managed to wrangle her hair up into a reasonable French twist, and had curled a few strands left loose around her face. All in all, she felt good. She smoothed the fabric one more time to make sure it lay flat, straightened her shoulders, and rang the bell.

She knew she was going to have an evening of damp knickers the moment Dom answered the door wearing that pristine linen towel again. Something about the way he seemed so confident and in control in the kitchen pushed buttons Ariadne hadn't even been aware she had, until a low-level attraction had become a battle not to imagine him naked every time she saw him so much as anywhere _near _pots or pans.

He took the bottle of wine she'd brought and lead her into the kitchen at the back of the house. The small table they had been sitting at just that morning had been transformed. It was now set with fine linens Ariadne would never have suspected Miles of owning. The place settings were laid out with enough forks to convince her that she was in for the Royal treatment. There were just two places set.

"I thought we'd sit in here, tonight," Dom murmured from right behind her, "instead of the dining room."

"Cosy," Ariadne agreed_, _distracted_._ "Is it, ah, is it just us tonight?"

He was close enough that she could actually feel the rumble of his low laughter against her back, a faint vibration that gave the illusion of contact. "Miles has taken the children out to visit friends, in Nice."

"You've planned this perfectly, I see."

He laughed again, and it was wicked sounding. "I was the best Extractor in the business, Ariadne. I plan _very_ well." He waited a beat, before continuing in a lighter voice, still speaking to her back because Ariadne wasn't sure she wanted to turn around and find that this awareness she felt between them was of her own invention. "Besides, Miles felt like sharing some unasked-for advice this morning, and you know, I never go against Miles' advice. It's proven kind of lucky for me in recent years."

"Oh?" _My voice absolutely did not just squeak._ "And what did Miles have to share with you?"

"He reminded me that it wouldn't do to become a proper chef without the proper audience to impress, now would it?"

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Only that he was sure there were plenty of acceptable classes I could have taken without crossing the Atlantic; probably without even leaving town."

_Oh dear. I wonder if I should sit down now._ But before she got to entirely finish analysing this apparently new set of rules between them, he's stepped back, like they hadn't just been obliquely possibly-discussing some kind of a, a _them_. She _really_ hated feeling like she might be the only one on this page, when she was so damned _sure _in moments like these that he had been there, too.

"Pour yourself a glass of wine, and grab a seat while I finish the salad."

Dinner was fantastic, of course. They'd started with a simple salad of pissenlit, or dandelion greens, honeyed goat cheese, strawberries, spicy-sweet candied pecans and duck confit. Ariadne wasn't sure what was sexier – the silky feel of the rich duck on her tongue, or the sight of Dom in the kitchen, whipping up the brown sugar dressing with short, perfectly-controlled strokes of a balloon whisk. He seemed utterly at ease, and Ariadne found herself trying to be discrete as she shifted about in her chair. He followed the salad with escallops of veal en sauce velouté served over a bed of smoky lentils du puy. The sauce was rich and complex, and Ariadne could feel it marching straight to her hips, but she guiltlessly enjoyed every bit. She was fairly certain she moaned somewhere in the haze of culinary gluttony but she wasn't sure if it was because of the sinfully sensual slide of the sauce, or because of the look in Dom's eyes as he watched her enjoy it. What she _was_ sure of is that she blushed three ways from Sunday, and glared at him until he smirked and went back to his own dinner.

Dessert was slices of triple chocolate terrine, made with three layers of chocolate ganaché, served in a pool of strawberry champagne coulis. There had been lots of maybe-flirting and good conversation, and Ariadne wasn't sure anymore if she was having this relationship in her mind, but she knew she needed to find out if she was going to get tendonitis of the wrist, or if there was some hope for more.

"I got an offer."

Her announcement was definitely a non sequitur in their previously light conversation, and caught him off guard; the fork stopped mid-bite, before he very deliberately finished bringing it to his mouth. "Which firm?"

"Dunlop & Associates; apparently, our dinner meeting went well." She hesitated for a moment, but he didn't say anything, so she continued, "I also got an offer from a team here in Paris." It was out there; as close as her dignity would allow her to asking him if he fucking wanted her, because she was his for the taking. She could feel her whole body, like every single tendon was screaming at her as they tensed, waiting for a response, anything.

He took another bite, chewed, swallowed and reached for his wine. She grew impatient. "Well, what do you think?"

"I think you have a decision to make."

It was his calm delivery of it and the way he couldn't seem to meet her gaze that had her exploding, "Jesus, Dom, has it ever occurred to you that in all your trying not to interfere, you might be sending some pretty mixed signals? What the hell is tonight, then? "

"What do you want me to tell you? That I want you to choose Dunlop, because I can't stand the thought of you not being in my life? That you're so far under my skin I can't breathe without your taste in my mouth?" The rawness of his tone and the look in his eyes made her gut clench and she could feel it all the way down to her cunt. Ariadne had heard him like this, once. He wasn't shouting at her, like he had at Arthur, nor was he jabbing a finger in her face, but it was that same look in his eyes, that same less-than-perfect glide in his movements, like the veneer was cracked, and she was seeing the emotional chaos underneath his calm surface. He was quiet for a long time, just watching her, breathing deeply.

"You shouldn't choose me, Ariadne, because you can do so much fucking better than an old man in a slightly south-of-middle-aged body," he said at last, still staring at her like he could see all the way down into some secret place inside of her. "You shouldn't choose me, because you've got a future ahead of you that doesn't have to include darkness, or guilt or madness. I know you can do so much better, but I'm selfish Ariadne, and I just can't help wanting you to choose me anyway."

_Well shit._ She scooted around the table to kneel in front of him, as best her dress would allow. He was probably getting a bit of a show as it rode up her thighs, but she didn't care. He made no move to touch her, or evade her, but his eyes were burning as he watched. "You're right. I can have a future free of all those things," she said, and reached out to rest her hand on his, using her pinky finger to gently stroke the skin along one knuckle, "but what I have learned is I can't have the future I want without _you_."

Sometime during her little speech, he's twined his fingers with hers, holding her hand against his knee, and now he's using his hold to pull her up until he catches her mouth with his. It's hot and slick and utterly perfect, despite the fact that the edge of the table is digging into her back, or that she is awkwardly half-on, half-off his lap. He still has one of her hands trapped in his, and he is slowly raising it to trance the long line of her side, gently ghosting over the material of her dress until he's brought their joined hands to trance the outline of her breast, and before she really realizes what they're up to, he is helping her to fondle herself while his tongue does wicked things to the inside of her mouth. His other hand is planted in the small of her back, helping her to straddle his leg, which is definitely better than the undignified sprawl of before, but now she's trying to fight the temptation to simply grind herself against his thigh until she's screaming her release into his lungs.

There is panting and maybe a little discrete grinding on Ariadne's part, and the incredibly erotic slide of his lips on hers, her tongue desperately seeking his and his hand continuing to guide hers in palming her own breast. When he finally pulls back and rests his forehead against hers, he's panting heavily, and she knows for a fact she has just whimpered.

"Ariadne, think about what you're doing—"

"I _have_ thought, Dom," she states firmly, before he could really get up steam. She gives him an arch look, and asks, "Would you like me to show you what I was _doing_ while I was thinking about it?"

She feels him shudder under her hands, but she knows he had to say this before he can move forward, so she makes no attempt to distract him.

"Have you thought about the age difference, Ariadne? Not just the physical, though God knows it's enough, but the mental? In Limbo I've lived to be over eighty years old. Christ, I'm _beyond_ too old for you."

She sits patiently and lets him finish. He looks tortured, and he has obviously given this a great deal of thought. His eyes have faint smudges under them, smudges that have been getting progressively darker the longer he stayed in Paris, attesting to his increasingly sleepless nights. His foot is tapping slightly beneath her, and while causing some very distracting sparks, she doesn't think he is at all aware of the unintentional ride he's giving her. She runs both hands through his sandy hair, and gently guides his head back until he is looking her in the eyes again. "Are you finished?" she asks softly. "Because I don't want to have this discussion more than once." She holds his gaze until he nods slowly in her grasp, though she doesn't remove her hands from his hair. "Good. Now, yes, you are a bit older than I, but, and this is the important bit, so pay attention," she pauses, and makes sure she has his complete focus, "So. Fucking. What."

He glares at her. "I'm serious, Ari."

"So am I, Dom. I'm more than old enough to know what I want. All Dreamers become older than they actually are, including me. Look at Arthur; look at Eames – are you going to try and tell me they're still carefree young men? We've spent the last two years dancing around each other; I know exactly who you are, and it's the man I love."

His expression, which has been reflecting his effort to keep some distance, crumples. He brings both hands up to her face, and they are so big his palms envelope the sides of her neck, the shell of her ears, and part of her jaw while his thumbs feather delicate patterns along her cheekbones. "Ari," he utters, and his voice is a mere whisper against her lips before he kisses her, slow and deep and gentle. "Ari," he breathes again, trailing his lips along her jaw, dragging his nose against her skin and breathing her in as though he could somehow take her inside himself. He trembles beneath her, and she feels a hint of moisture against her skin, along her jaw line. His hands are hot where they touched her, and she is very aware of her nipples rubbing pleasurably against her dress. The fabric feels rough against her sensitized flesh. She shifts a little against his thigh and moans softly, and he gets the hint instantly; his grip tightens and his breathing gets heavier, sending moist air ghosting along her skin.

Her hands shake a bit, too, when she reaches between them and starts to undo the buttons of his shirt. He gives her room to work, and uses his hold on her hips to rock her a bit on the thick muscle of his leg as he continues to lazily kiss his way along her neck. She manages to get his shirt undone, and pushes it out of the way, so it is hanging open and she can see his broad chest. The way the candlelight is playing on his skin causes the muscles to stand out in stark relief of shadows and light, warm and inviting. She bends forward and runs the tip of her tongue against one of his flat nipples, causing him to groan and pull her down against him with a little more force. "Yes, Ari – feels so goddamned good," he encourages, and he sounds a little breathless. She leans forward to lick him some more, and while she's busy seeing what other sounds she can make him utter, He gets the zipper to her dress undone with only minimal fumbling before he's urging her up. She stands, looking down at him, and he watches her dress as it falls and pools around her feet.

She's standing there, in the middle of the kitchen, in her expensive black meant-to-give-her-confidence pantyhose – which she was seriously beginning to think was the best twenty-five dollars she'd ever spent – and her favourite burgundy bra. She gives him her best coy smile and takes a step back, so that he can see her better. The look on Dom's face is telling her everything she needs to know, and she reaches around and slowly, one hook at a time, undoes her bra. She crosses one arm in front to hold it in place, and slides the straps from her shoulders as leisurely as she can manage, before finally allowing the garment to fall to the floor. She gives him another smile and crooks a finger towards him, and he chuckles at her playfulness.

He stalks –and there was no other word for the way he moves, but stalks – towards her, and backs her up until her hip hits the kitchen island, and she puts out her hands behind her for balance.

"Keep them there," he orders softly, and then he is kneeling before her, running his hands along her legs; starting at her toes, caressing her ankles, trailing up her calves to explore the dimples in her knees and then moving on to knead her tight thighs.

She keeps her hands braced on the countertop behind her, and she watches Dom through slanted, lazy eyes as he kneels there. He's still in his dress pants and his collared shirt, though the latter _is_ hanging off his shoulders. The crispness of it vaguely irritates her even as it turns her on, because she feels like she's ready to explode, and he should at least be rumpled, damnit.

He presses his face against her crotch and inhales deeply while nudging her clit teasingly with his nose, a sensation that is maddeningly muted by the layers of fabric still between them. "Incredible," he murmurs as he pulls away. Ariadne has to fight really hard to obey instructions and leave her hands where they are, and not pull his face back by his hair. He reaches up behind her, and gropes for something on the counter while continuing to run the fingers of his other hand teasingly over her legs. The sheer silk of her pantyhose provides a teasing barrier to his touch as his fingers glided up her calf, past her knee and thigh, until he's making lazy circles along her slit and she shivers at the sensation.

"As fucking sexy as these are, they're most definitely in the way," he rasps, and Ariadne can't agree more.

She starts to move her hands so she can take them off. "Stop!" he says, restraining her with one hand pressed gently against her mons. His voice is commanding, but there is a smile trying to break out on his lips. She pauses and looks down at him where he's kneeling, and he has a small paring knife in his hand. He keeps her gaze as he pinches the material and slowly pulls it away from her crotch. Her breath sounds loud in her own ears, and she tries to feel indignant that he is about to ruin her expensive pair of courage-inducing pantyhose, but all she can think of is how fucking hot it is. The sound of the knife slowly tearing through the stretchy fabric is a soft whisper in the still air, and when he's done, the front of her burgundy panties are exposed by the slice he's made through the front of her hosiery.

"Oh god," she moans, and tries to press her thighs together, to create some friction where she needs it most, but suddenly he has his hand between her legs, cupping her, and pressing his thumb against her clit, hard. "God, yes!" she strangles out at the sudden pressure, and it feels delicious, but before she can even move her hips to take advantage of his hand, he's rotating his thumb, pressing harder; harder, until she's shaking and swearing, and something is tightening inside of her like a steel trap ready to spring. The satiny material of her underwear is soaked through and slides easily against her clit, providing rough friction with every move of his thumb.

"That's it, Ariadne. Come for me," he says, and his voice is ragged. There is just the one light left on over the stove, and the candles still burning on the table to cast a shadowy sex show dancing on the walls all around her as she throws her head back and moans through partly clenched teeth.

"Fuck yes. You're so beautiful, Ariadne. Tell me what I do to you. I want to hear your voice."

"Fuck!" she swears; admittedly not the most elegant of statements of pleasure, but it is visceral and comes from somewhere near her toes, which are curling against the slate floor. Dom is palming himself through his slacks, a hard bulge visible even in the half-light. "Shit, Dom, just like that. Just like that," she chokes out, losing control of her tongue as she begins losing control of her body. "Oh god! Fuck yes! Just like that, – feels so fucking good—!"

She leans back on her hands, trying to throw her weight back to keep her balance as the trap is sprung in one long, endless spiral of hot pleasure and satiny friction. She's pretty sure she screams, possibly even his name if his cocky grin is any indication when she finally comes down enough to notice.

And still he's pressing her clit, gentler this time, but an insistent spiral that has her shuddering against his hand and moaning in spite of herself. "I'm going to fuck you now, Ariadne. And when we're done, I'm going to take you to my bed, where I hope you will stay for the rest of our lives."

"Is that a marriage proposal, or just fair warning?" she manages around another breathy moan, not really able to concentrate on anything but the wonderful pattern he's drawing against her clit, and the growing tightness in her gut.

"Consider it a statement of intent," he says, and each word sounds like he has to concentrate on it.

She nearly protests when he takes his hand away. He uses the knife again to make quick work of her sopping panties, and she can't even muster the semblance of chagrin at their destruction. Her pussy is now bare to his lingering gaze and she can feel the heat of his breath against her skin. He gives her a devilish look, and slowly leans in and runs his tongue along the sensitive edges of her labia until her breath hitches, and then it dips between to swirl quickly against her clit before he's standing up. Honestly, if it isn't for the arm he holds out, which Ariadne quickly grabs, she would have fallen over. "Bastard," she mutters, crossly.

He boosts her up, lifting her easily onto the countertop. The granite is cold under her ass, but feels good against her hot skin, even through the ruins of her panties and hose. This position eliminates a lot of their height differences brings her up so that he only has to duck a little to suckle her breast greedily, and she gasps and clutches his forearms with fingers like claws. The fabric of his shirt wrinkles under her grip, and she isn't entirely sure she isn't leaving marks, she's digging her fingers in so hard, but he seems to like it, because he sucks her breast into his mouth and rasps his tongue against her nipple until there are lights building behind her eyes, and she thinks she might come again, but he pulls away.

"Are we good?" he asks, and his eyes are so dark as he gazes at her that the pupils have disappeared almost entirely and the blue of his irises has become a stormy grey. Ariadne glances down and notices that he's freed his cock while he'd been busy making her swear - though that's all he's bothered with, and his slacks are left riding low on his hips. Moisture weeping from the slit glistens in the candlelight, and he is fuck-hard, and oh god does she want him with an intensity that is very nearly bewildering. Distracted as she is, it takes her a second to process his question as being the reason nothing has happened yet.

"I'm covered," she says, and nods for good measure, just in case, and oh fuck, he's pushing inside of her with one swift thrust that feels more like a stab, but so fucking _good_. She gets her legs up, and is trying to hitch them over his hips, but her post-orgasmic muscle coordination just isn't up to the task when he is grinding into her like this. "Damn," she swears softly, and he laughs gently even as he reaches down to help her.

He grins down at her, with a smile that is _just_ gentle enough to be saved from being cocky, but it's trying to be. "One more time, Ariadne," he whispers, "come for me."

His skin is slick against hers, what little of his is exposed, and she can't help but notice how unequal this ended up being, in that respect. She isn't complaining, though, as she enjoys making a mess of his dress clothes, and she takes a tighter grip on his shirt. She wants him to come apart for her, wants to feel and see and touch his pleasure so that it surrounds her, becomes a part of her. She can feel his hips flexing against her legs and the fabric brushing against her pantyhose is providing a compelling sensation that is climbing up her legs and into her core. His zipper is digging into the little slice of exposed skin of her inner thigh, but the sharp pinch is just the perfect counterpart to the almost too-intense pleasure of her building second orgasm. His nipple is hard against the tip of her tongue as she works it, and he's groaning as she does, and when she scrapes her teeth against it, he jerks so sharply that for a moment, she thinks he might be coming. "Do that again," he demands, and she does, before giving a sharp cry as he hits just the right spot inside her and she's coming apart and she needs to kiss him, to lick him to take him inside so she's sucking on the skin just below his collarbone so hard she is leaving a dark purple bruise behind, and he shouts and convulses against her when she lightly scratches one nipple as she sucks his chest harder and spasms around him.

He ran his fingers down her bare back as they came down; his cock was still inside her body, and he was holding her to him so that she was pressed against his skin. His heart was beating beneath her cheek, and she could smell the remains of dinner, and his cologne and sex.

"I think we made a bit of a mess," Ariadne murmured, and she felt his chest rumble under her.

"Nothing that won't wait until tomorrow," he replied, sounding completely enervated. She was relieved to hear none of the second-guessing in his tone that she hadn't realized she'd been afraid of hearing until he spoke.

"I seem to recall someone promising to take me to bed," she reminded, playfully when he didn't say anything else and not exactly sure what was supposed to happen next, but really, really hoping it didn't involve the _We Really Shouldn't Have Done That_ speech.

He pulled back just enough so she could see him, though he kept their bodies joined. "I seem to recall a promise like that, too. I believe it went something like, into my bed, and into my life. _Our_ life, I should say; I come as a bit of a packaged deal. Are you ready for that?"

She grinned stupidly at him, knowing she probably looked idiotic with her face trying to split like that, but not caring a damn bit. "I'm sure there's nothing quite like it," she assured him impudently, and he laughed as he set about carrying out his end of the bargain.

~ Fini ~


End file.
